The second week of farmer’s market has come and gone. We moved our stand from the interior of City
Hall Park (Burlington) to the starkness of St. Paul Street for the season, and
our customers have had some difficulty finding us. That market is so big now with 90 vendors, I
haven’t had the opportunity to walk all of it yet!
Bad things that happened while you were away:
The kid from Dunkin’ Donuts forgot to give us our half dozen
assorted, dropped our change at the drive-thru, and we were so engrossed in our
own conversation and jacked up on the first frosty Coolatta/Iced Coffee of the
season that we didn’t even notice until we got back home.
(I think that means we have reached the ground floor – or
possibly the basement level - of middle age.)
There was a naked chicken bone laying there under the window
when I picked up the fumbled Dunkin’ dollar.
Who tosses a sucked dry wing on the ground after passing one courtesy
garbage can, knowing they will be approaching another after receiving their
order? And why were you eating what I want
in my belly?
(Not enough hand sanitizer in my purse for that brief
encounter – and I actually considered leaving the sketchy single where it lay – but you already know that I didn’t.)
I realized that standing on hard pavement for 6 hours in the
sun is different from standing on uneven turf in the shade, and find myself
more tired and achy and squint(ier) than usual after vending our farm’s wares
over the weekend.
(Also, might be an age thing.)
I lost my voice for a few days from a bronchial infection or
something – doesn’t matter what - but the husband seems uncharacteristically
giddy.
(I’m one stone’s throw away from communicating exclusively
with angry Post-its and rude hand signals.)
Someone mistook me in person for Calley Hastings from Fat
Toad Farm (she is a fellow Sunday contributor to that other paper that shall
not be named).
Good things to share:
Someone mistook me for Calley Hastings (20 years my junior).
Another mentioned I was “prettier in person”.
(Note to self: never change that old publicity photo, so
this happens more often.)
My “Eat More Kale” merchandise arrived and is really cool to
wear in public, as nearly every Vermonter knows what the phrase means, so I
don’t have to explain it.
(That’s stone solid WINNING;
as I currently squeak instead of speak.)
Both red and yellow-winged blackbirds have set up house in
the trees in the front yard, and are keeping ravens from raiding the chicken eggs
laid on pasture.
(Nature can be an awesome and surprisingly effective ally.)
The best joke at my expense over the last few days came from
my husband, Dan, who said:
“Make sure you feed the cats while I’m working in the fields,
because no one can hear you scream.”
